


To Have And To Heal

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angry Aragorn, Aragorn's POV, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Healer!Aragorn, Healing, Hurt!Faramir, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, POV First Person, Post-Battle, Post-War of the Ring, Stabbing, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23737294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: Damrod is with me, glancing worriedly between your torn flesh and your face, his keen eyes sometimes settling on me as if to check that I am still there. No, I wouldn’t disappear into nothingness suddenly, but I understand his concern - it is possible that I have never felt more unsteady in my life.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	To Have And To Heal

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to MermaidSheenaz for encouraging me to write this little piece, and for checking it over <3

“Aaaah!” 

It’s more of a weak moan than a scream, and yet, to my ears it is deafening. You are lying prone on the thick furs, half-undressed, your eyes shut and your lip between your teeth. I have my fingers digging into the wound at your side and you try to twist away every time I move them. Every time it breaks me a bit more, and yet,  there is no other healer in the whole camp that I would let anywhere near you now.

Damrod is with me, glancing worriedly between your torn flesh and your face, his keen eyes sometimes settling on me as if to check that I am still there. No, I wouldn’t disappear into nothingness suddenly, but I understand his concern - it is possible that I have never felt more unsteady in my life. There is a trembling in my body that slowly spreads through my limbs and I know I should finish what I’m doing before I am unable to. 

There is a hard edge of a broken blade, slick with blood and  warm with your body. I try to grasp it gently, but it slips from the tips of my fingers and you give a faint cry. I am proud of you, my dear, holding on how you are. Lesser men would have skewered me with their swords already, surely. I grit my teeth when I think about the pain you must be in, evidenced by your fingers clenched tightly in the blanket thrown over your legs.

I clear my throat and try again, cursing quietly when the metal escapes me yet again. Why did you fight after you had been stabbed, Faramir? The broken-off piece must have moved then, making it almost impossible to retrieve. 

Blood wells up in the wound again and I cannot see what I’m doing anymore. I think I can feel the edge of metal beneath my fingertip, but your body jolts with a pained cry, and I jerk my hands away, looking up at you. Your eyes are wet and your lip is bitten raw, and there isn’t a thing on Arda that could stop me from kissing you now. I lean in, slowly, place a gentle kiss upon your lips, as chaste as I would kiss a noble maiden for the first time. It is the only kind of tenderness I can bestow upon you in this hour, my love - until the dust settles along with the incoming evening, for as long there are people milling about and you are still bleeding, I dare not risk anything else. Damrod does not mind what we do, as doesn’t Legolas, up to his pointy ears in Gimli, but other soldiers are not as nice about it. They may not care that we are both men, but they are not as keen on turning a blind eye on the matters of the state and their king traipsing around with his steward. 

You shift slightly, a grimace creeping over your features making me pull away and gaze at you closely. You look tired and in way too much pain, and yet, there is barely any protest from you when Damrod cleans the blood spilling over and prepares you for another try.    
“I’m sorry, Mir,” I whisper, desperately trying to convey the whole extent of my feelings, hoping like a fool that I could shoulder some of your hurts. You smile thinly, your eyes flickering to mine.    
“‘Tis fine,” you breathe out, tilting your head back a little, a gesture of trust you are probably not even aware of. It makes my own eyes misty and I move back to the task. 

I can see better now, and an idea comes to my mind.    
“Give me the knife.” I command, and Damrod springs into action, turning around and fetching a small blade. It’s well sharpened and has been cleaned in the fire burning a few feet away from us, but those are both qualities of secondary importance. It is tiny and narrow, about the length of my thumb, and it will serve perfectly.    
“Hold him,” I prompt, placing Damrod’s hands on both sides of the wound, one on your hip and one on your ribs.  His fingers are twitching, but I know his hold will be steady. I would not have had him here otherwise. I need someone I can trust to keep me from hurting you accidentally , and an unexpected jerk of your body could put the blade right through your liver. 

The implication of this makes my head swim, and I shake it to dispel the gloomy thoughts. 

Grabbing the edge of the metal is easier now, but it still makes you whine. You strain against Damrod’s hands, and he holds fast, keeping you down. There are feet walking behind me, the thump of soldier’s boots telling me it is one of the Gondorians coming closer. I cannot spare it anymore thought, however, for I have finally managed to dislodge the broken-off blade and started to pull it out slowly. I would have it out of you the second I took hold of it, but I do not want to damage anything inside you further than it already is. You whine and moan, but I can feel you going pliant under my fingers. 

“Oh, by Eru!” The soldier behind me says unexpectedly, grating on my nerves. “Why is he whining now? Did little brother graze his knees again?” His voice is a very curious mix of mockery and sleaziness, and I am ready to make my presence known - I am dressed in a ranger garb, having changed into it after my royal robes had gotten soaked in the battle -  but the piece of metal between my thumb and the knife is finally pulled free and I lose interest in whatever he has to say. Your body sags back into the furs, your breathing shallow and quick, and I hope the worst is behind us. 

As Damrod presses a clean cloth to the wound, trying to stop the blood flowing from it like a small river, I bring the scrap of metal up, inspecting it closely. There doesn’t seem to be a bit of it missing, certainly not from the part I couldn’t see when it was still embedded deep inside you, and I exhale shakily, throwing it to the side. Only after a long moment it registers with me that the soldier behind my back is still blabbering on.    
“Shut up, man!” Damrod sneers, seemingly fed up with whatever he’s been saying. I do not know, not having paid him any attention, too busy trying to determine whether you’re still conscious or not. As if on cue, you blink your eyes open and glance down at me, an exhausted look upon your face. I smile softly. 

You are going to live, love.

“Bring some more hot water!” Damrod orders, and I know that the soldier behind me hasn’t moved, when another bark follows. “Now, damn you!” 

“Who’s that?” I ask when the man in question leaves the tent, causing a draft that makes me shiver. I pull the hood lower over my head, hoping to stave off the chill. Damrod senses it too, because even as he is shrugging in answer to my question, he throws a blanket over your chest, keeping you warm. The wound is still easily accessible, and he dabs at it from time to time, cleaning the blood up.    
“A soldier in the army of Gondor. He was in Captain Boromir’s unit. A damn fool, and apparently had some dislike towards Faramir,” Damrod explains, glancing up at me. “He was not very pleased that Boromir died and Faramir took over their unit. From what I’ve heard,  he sided strongly with the late Steward…”   
“A damn fool he is indeed, then,” I grumble, turning back to the task of patching you up. “We should clean the wound and close it.” 

I wait for Damrod to nod, acknowledging the plan, before I turn around and take a flask of herbal tincture. It’s the best I have right now and, although it is diluted, the herbs in it will stop any infection from entering your body. I still send an apologetic look your way before I pour it over the injury, amazed when you cry out only once. 

“He was always a weakling,” the sleazy voice is back, just before a splash of water can be heard. The bowl of it is set at your feet, and the soldier is back to standing behind me, completely unaware that he is badmouthing his king’s lover in the king’s presence. My hands twitch, but Damrod shakes his head slightly, lifting the piece of cloth he’s been using to clean up the tincture. The wound looks angry and I fall back to taking care of it. 

I notice Damrod looking over your body to where my hands are working, and I smile, promising myself to take him to a proper healer’s tent sometime and teach him about the workings of the human body. He could use some more knowledge about healing in these war-filled times. 

“...always crying like a baby. Captain Boromir would have never done that, no my lads! He was tough as nails! Not like his little brother! A baby through and through. Couldn’t even take a wound like a soldier!” The man behind me drones on, and I finally have enough. The first stitch is in place, I can see you relaxing somewhat, and Damrod looks like he is ready to jump up and beat some sense into the poor fool. While I wouldn’t be opposed to that, I do not think that this scoundrel deserves so much of Damrod’s energy. 

Before he can do anything, I grab the small knife I used on you just moments ago and thrust my arm out blindly behind me, grunting in satisfaction when the blade digs into the soldier’s leg. He gives a shriek so loud I think the whole camp must have heard him, but it’s barely enough to satisfy me and Damrod. I stand up then, turning to find him clutching at his thigh.    
“How dare you!?” He shouts angrily. “You ranger scum! The king will hear about this!” He looks like he wants to add something more, but trails off with a shock clear on his face when I lower my hood.    
“What’s your name?” I ask, glaring at him, fighting the urge to punch him for good measure.    
“Ser… Sergeant Rodan, your majesty.”    
“A sergeant?” I ask, aware that my voice is nothing else but a sneer, but unable to be apologetic about it. “No, you are not. You are a disgrace and henceforth stripped from your rank.”   
“But… but your majesty!” He protests, his voice tightening up. I wince slightly, feeling his very presence grating at my nerves.    
“Dismissed!” I growl, turning back and taking my position at your side.    
“But… your majesty! My leg!” He whines -  _ whines - _ and I sigh. I twist around, grab the knife and pull it out quickly, tearing another shriek out of him.    
“Wash it with clean water. Now, get out of my sight!” 

This time, he listens and scrambles away as fast as he can. I turn back to see Damrod watching me with a smirk on his face. I shrug, glancing at you, just to meet your blue eyes watching my every move. 

We go back to stitching. 

-&-

It is much later when I finally have time to lie down.  The evening is cold, but the space next to you is warm and cozy, and I am unable to hold back a satisfied hum as I slip under the blankets. I had you moved from the main tent meant for sorting out the wounded soldiers into my own, much more comfortable and with a supply of thick blankets. You lie there peacefully, on your good side and with fresh bandages around your middle, and I carefully slide closer,  making sure the covers will not let in any stray, cool draft. Your back is turned to me and I press my front against it, my arm sneaking around your chest to hold you close. I avoid the wound carefully, then think better of it.  The healing powers within me work strongly on you \- courtesy of our Numenorean heritage - and they could be of help now. 

Gently, hoping not to wake you, I skim my hand down your side to the wound. Even bandaged as it is, it could benefit from the contact between us. I am about to close my eyes and muster up the last dregs of energy from my exhausted body, when your fingers close unexpectedly around my wrist.    
“Don’t even think about it,” you whisper, and I blink owlishly in the flickering light of the few candles burning on the table nearby. There is a tired sigh and a moment later, you turn onto your back, carefully and slowly, ignoring the warning scowl I send your way.    
“You should not move!” I scold, placing my hand on your shoulder to hold you down, lest you think of rolling over even more.    
“And you should be resting,” you counter, swallowing heavily, then looking at me. 

Your eyes are still pained and your lips are dry, and I can feel myself softening quickly.    
“How do you feel?” I ask, levering myself up on one elbow, hovering over your face so that you don’t have to lift your head to look down at me.    
“I am alive still, so I think the answer should be  _ good…” _   
“But?” I can hear the hesitation in your voice and it is worrying me. Had my healing attempts been too late? Is there something else wrong that I do not know about?    
“I am merely concerned about the Haradrim…” You go on, and  I exhale shakily, having been completely unaware of the air I had sucked up earlier and kept inside like a man preparing to be drowned. 

_ Oh my dear love, how can you worry about battles when you are here, injured and hurting?  _

“How does it look out there?” You inquire, inclining your head slightly, indicating the entrance to the tent. I shake my head slowly, giving in to the sudden urge to run my fingers through your hair. The way your eyes flutter briefly at my touch is just what I needed to settle down my overwrought nerves.   
“It is peaceful,” I answer softly. “Quiet. The dead have been laid to rest, the wounded seen to.”   
“And the Haradrim?”   
“They retreated. Tomorrow they will surrender. I am to speak with their leader, settle a peace treaty enabling us to keep the lands all the way to Poros.” You frown, hearing my words, and I run my fingers over your forehead, down the side of your face, until my thumb can rest under the line of your jaw. Your lips have a pout to them - a sign of your mind troubling over details - and I want to kiss it away.   
“And do we trust them not to come back in the dead of night to slaughter us?” You ask soberly, and I chuckle warmly.   
“By no means!” A grin forms on my lips. “I had Legolas pick his best soldiers for the watch. We have pickets posted two miles from our camp, and I have heard that Gimli is already sharpening his axe,” I explain, happy to see you smile at last.   
“Good. That’s very good,” you murmur, then shift a bit, tilting your body in my direction, pressing closer. 

I know I should scold you for moving around at all.  The healer in me, the man who loves you , is screaming at me to point out that your body has not yet mended itself together, that you still have a wound in your side that should not be pressed too much, that there are stitches that don’t like to have any strain on them. 

I lean in and kiss you instead, gently but deeply, reclaiming your mouth and erasing all those helpless whimpers that still echo in my ears every time I close my eyes. You kiss me back lazily, almost clumsily in your hazy lack of coordination, and I remember that I have fed you a herbal tea earlier, one that was meant to ease up the pain and make you rest comfortably. It seems like you’ve found your resting place against me, for you arrange yourself gingerly over my chest, placing your head on my shoulder.

_ I can scold you tomorrow,  _ I decide, wrapping my arms protectively around your back and holding you close. For now, I let my eyes drift shut, smiling when I hear Gimli working on his axe somewhere near the tent.  Legolas is with him, singing softly, an old Elvish song I have forgotten the lyrics of. Tomorrow, we will sign the treaty. Tonight, we shall sleep. 


End file.
